Once Too Often

by Dorothy Simpson

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  TO LAURA,

  first of the next generation

  ONE

  Lamplight. Curtains drawn against the chill of an early October night. No sound but the crackle of the fire and the flutter of paper as Joan referred to one of her interminable lists. The atmosphere should have been conducive to creative thought, but Thanet was scowling as he sat gazing at his latest attempt with its numerous amendments and crossings out. He groaned, ripped the sheet off the pad, scrumpled it up and tossed it at the fire. He missed and it bounced back and lay on the hearthrug, a silent reproach – and a reminder, as if he needed one: three more days and she would be gone from them for ever.

  ‘No good?’ said Joan.

  He shook his head. ‘Hopeless. Absolutely hopeless. It’s impossible! Keep it short, you said, that’s the main thing. No more than, what? Five minutes?’

  ‘Ten at the outside, I’d say.’

  ‘All right. Ten. But it also has to be urbane, coherent, witty without being vulgar and contrive to sustain what we hope will be an atmosphere of conviviality and goodwill. And to be honest, the prospect of standing up and attempting to achieve all that in front of Alexander’s snooty friends and relations frightens me out of my wits!’

  ‘Don’t be unfair! How can you say they’re snooty if you’ve never even met them? Bridget says they’re all very nice, the ones she’s met so far, anyway.’

  ‘Bridget sees anything to do with Alexander through rosecoloured spectacles.’

  ‘Isn’t that only natural?’ said Joan gently.

  Thanet had the grace to look shamefaced. ‘Yes, of course it is. It’s just that . . ’

  Joan put down the sheaf of papers she was holding and took his hand. ‘Look, darling, don’t you think that every father agonises over his speech for his daughter’s wedding exactly as you are doing now? But they all manage it, somehow.’

  ‘That’s supposed to make me feel better?’

  ‘And to be honest, no one worries very much what the father of the bride says as long as he’s brief about it.’

  ‘You’ve been talking to Ben.’

  Ben, their son, had just gone back to Reading for the beginning of his second year of a degree in computer studies. He was due to return on Friday, to be an usher at the wedding on Saturday.

  ‘He said the same thing, did he? There you are, then. We can’t both be wrong.’

  ‘If you’re both right and nobody cares what I say, why bother to say it at all? Why don’t we scrap the speeches altogether?’

  Joan ignored this as he knew she would and said, ‘Speaking of Ben reminds me.’ She made a note. ‘He said he won’t be back in time to pick up his suit on Friday. We must get it at the same time as yours. Anyway, as far as your speech is concerned, I don’t know what you’re worrying about. The whole atmosphere of the occasion will be working in your favour. At a wedding everyone’s in a cheerful mood, predisposed to enjoy themselves and be uncritical.’

  ‘I just don’t want to let Bridget down, that’s all.’

  Joan grinned. ‘Oh come on. Admit it. It’s your pride that’s at stake too, isn’t it?’

  She was right, of course.

  ‘Anyway, I’m sure you’re getting into a state for nothing. You’ll give a brilliant speech, I know you will, and I shall be proud of you. So get it over and done with. You want to be finished with it before the invasion, don’t you?’

  Thanet rolled his eyes. ‘How many did you say we have staying here on Friday night?’

  ‘I think it was seven, at the last count. There’s the four of us, your mother, Lucy and Thomas, her fiancé. He’s bringing a sleeping bag and he’ll sleep on the floor in Ben’s room.’

  Lucy was one of the two bridesmaids, a friend who dated back to Bridget’s schooldays and who now lived in York.

  ‘I think I’ll put up a camp bed at the office for the rest of the week. It’d be a lot more peaceful.’

  ‘Coward!’

  ‘Roll on Sunday, say I.’ Thanet picked up his pen, thankful that he had only one daughter. Imagine if they’d had three or four! It didn’t bear thinking about.

  For over a year now, ever since Alexander had turned up on their doorstep out of the blue one Sunday morning after an absence of eighteen months, the momentum towards the wedding had been gathering pace. Thanet had found it very hard to welcome him back after the shameful way he had treated Bridget previously: a year-long relationship terminated without warning by Alexander on the grounds that he ‘wasn’t ready’ for a long-term commitment. But Bridget had never really got over the affair and in the face of her radiant delight at Alexander’s return, Thanet had been forced to capitulate; the last thing he wanted was to alienate his beloved daughter. The reservations, however, remained. If Alexander could hurt Bridget once, he could do it again.

  Thanet was uneasy, too, about the fact that Alexander came from a more affluent background than their own. Although on the surface he was a good match, with a lucrative job in the City, Thanet was aware of the minefield that was the English class system and afraid that Bridget might get hurt trying to negotiate it unawares. There were undeniable advantages to the marriage, of course, not least the fact that on the strength of his mind-boggling salary Alexander had been able to take out a huge mortgage and buy a house in Richmond, apparently considered a highly desirable residential area. Bridget and Alexander had taken them to see it and Thanet had had to admit he was impressed. It was spacious, in excellent repair and even afforded a glimpse of the river from the upstairs windows. It would be a delightful area in which to live, Bridget had enthused, with both Richmond Park and the river close by.

  If only, he thought now, he could somehow guarantee that she would always be as happy as this. Unrealistic, he knew, but there it was, he couldn’t help feeling that way.

  ‘What are you doing?’ He peered at the paper on Joan’s lap.

  ‘Making a sort of timetable for the rest of the week.’ She held it up.

  So far as Thanet could see the lists of things to do grew longer and longer by the day. ‘You’ll wear yourself out.’

  ‘Only a few more days and I’ll be able to relax. Anyway, Bridget’ll be back on Thursday to help.’

  Bridget was spending a few days at the house in Richmond, hanging curtains and taking delivery of various household items.

  Joan tapped the blank sheet of paper in front of him. ‘Your speech, Luke! Honestly, you’ll never get anywhere at this rate.’

  The telephone rang.

  ‘Saved by the bell,’ said Thanet, jumping up with as much alacrity as his back would allow. About time he paid another visit to the chiropractor, he thought as he hurried into the hall.

  It was Pater, the Station Officer.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you, sir, but the report of a possible suspicious death has just come in, in Willow Way out at Charthurst. The woman fell downstairs, apparently, but our blokes are not too happy about the circumstances. I’ve notified Doc Mallard and the SOCOs.’

  ‘Right. I’ll get out there straight away.’

  Thanet made a mental note of the directions Pater gave him, replaced the phone and poked his head into the sitting room.

  Joan forestalled him. ‘Don’t tell me! Your speech is never going to get written!’

  ‘Sorry, love. It’ll have to wait.’

  Already Thanet’s pulse had quickened and as he drove out into the darkness of the countryside via the r
elatively deserted streets of Sturrenden, the small country town in Kent where he lived and worked, he felt a mounting sense of anticipation. Anxiety about Bridget’s forthcoming marriage forgotten, his mind was filled with the kind of pointless speculation which he was powerless to control at the beginning of a case: what would the dead woman be like? Was her family involved? Who had called the police, and why? And what were the circumstances the police officers considered suspicious?

  Charthurst was about fifteen minutes’ drive from Sturrenden, a large village which had, over the past twenty years, expanded considerably to accommodate a steadily growing population; possessing the dubious benefit of a main-line station to London, it was a popular choice with commuters. At this time of night there was nobody about. Only the cars parked outside the two pubs showed that there was any social life.

  Thanet turned right as instructed at the second, the Green Man. The little estate where the dead woman lived was tucked in behind it, on the edge of the village. Beyond, there was a group of farm buildings and then the road narrowed to a lane bordered by high hedges. Number 2, Willow Way was obviously the house on the right-hand corner at the entrance to the estate; police vehicles and an ambulance were clustered around and the congestion was made worse by some minor roadworks at the edge of the road immediately in front of it. Figures visible at lighted windows and a small huddle of interested spectators showed that the neighbours were taking a lively interest in what was going on.

  With difficulty Thanet managed to squeeze his car in behind Doc Mallard’s distinctive old Rover. It was starting to rain and he turned up his collar as Sergeant Lineham came hurrying to meet him.

  ‘What’s the story, Mike?’ With weary resignation Thanet recognised the onset of a familiar churning in his gut. The moment he always dreaded was at hand and there was nothing he could do to armour himself against it. Despite every possible effort and all his years of experience nothing seemed to help him bear with fortitude that first sight of a corpse. He had long ago come to accept that it was the price he had to pay for doing the work he loved.

  ‘The dead woman is Jessica Dander, sir.’

  ‘The KM reporter?’

  ‘Yes. Apparently there was a 999 request for an ambulance. The caller just said there’d been an accident and gave the address. Didn’t give his name.’

  ‘His?’

  ‘That’s yet to be established. Anyway, when the ambulancemen arrived they found the husband crouched over the body – in a terrible state, they said.’

  ‘By terrible state they meant . . .?’

  ‘Distraught.’

  ‘This was how long afterwards?’

  ‘The call was made at 8.11. The ambulance arrived at 8.26.’

  ‘Pretty good response time. Right. Go on.’

  ‘Well, they thought it all looked a bit fishy. The husband swore he’d been out for a walk, had only just got in, and found his wife lying at the bottom of the staircase. But someone – either he or someone else – had made that call. So they decided to call the police and our lot weren’t too happy about it either.’

  While they were talking Thanet had been looking around. Housing estates varied considerably in quality and presentation, and in his opinion this one came somewhere near the bottom of the league table. Nowadays it seemed to be only the very expensive, quality-built new houses which could find buyers, but ten years or so ago, when these had been put up, mass production equalled lower prices equalled speedy sales. Here, the builder had crammed the houses together in order to fit in as many as possible and although there was a mix of detached and semi-detached, the detached ones barely merited the description: between the wall of the garage and the house next door there was room for only the narrowest of paths. The houses were depressingly uniform in style too, and the layouts inside would be virtually identical, Thanet guessed. He was surprised. He would have expected Jessica Dander to have lived in a more upmarket area than this.

  ‘You’ve spoken to the husband?’

  ‘Only briefly. Thought I’d wait until you got here. I’m not sure that was the right thing to do, though. He’s in a bit of a state and I’ve got a feeling he can’t take much more tonight.’

  ‘Right. Better see what he has to say then.’ Thanet set off at a brisk pace up the short concrete path to the front door. In a few moments now I’ll see her. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it.

  ‘Just one point, sir, before you speak to him.’

  Thanet turned, only half listening, his mind on his imminent ordeal. ‘What?’

  ‘I know him, sir. The husband. I was at school with him.’

  Thanet forced himself to concentrate. ‘That could be useful. What’s his name?’

  ‘Manifest. Desmond Manifest.’

  ‘She kept her maiden name for work, then.’

  ‘Apparently.’

  Inside the house the cramped hall was grossly overcrowded. Apart from the fact that there seemed to be far too much furniture for such a small space, Scenes-of-Crime Officers were already busy and Doc Mallard was kneeling beside the body, partly obscuring her from view. Hearing Thanet and Lineham come in he glanced up and nodded a greeting. Thanet swallowed, took a deep breath and moved forward to look.

  She was lying on her back, one leg twisted awkwardly beneath her, arms outflung and head at an unnatural angle to her neck. Her eyes, a clear translucent green, had that fixed stillness which only death can impart. Never having met her and having seen only a black-and-white photograph of her at the head of her column in the Kent Messenger; Thanet was surprised for no good reason to see that her abundant curly hair was a deep, rich auburn, the colour of copper beech leaves in autumn. She was in her mid-thirties and, although her nose was a little too pointed and her lips too thin for her to be called beautiful, she was still a very attractive woman. She was small, no more than five feet three, he estimated, with a trim, compact figure, and was wearing clothes which looked expensive: a cinnamon-coloured silk blouse with loose sleeves caught in tightly at the wrist, and narrow dark brown velvet leggings. Already the cramps in his stomach were subsiding, his mind becoming engaged in the how and why of her death. One of her brown suede high-heeled shoes was missing, he noticed. Involuntarily his gaze travelled up the staircase and Lineham, who had worked with him so long that words were often unnecessary, said, ‘It’s near the top.’

  Perhaps a simple accident after all, then?

  Mallard was getting to his feet. ‘Yes, well, not much doubt about the cause of death, by the look of it, though I’ll have to confirm that after the PM, of course.’

  ‘Broken neck,’ said Lineham.

  ‘Precisely,’ said Mallard. ‘Severance of the spinal cord. But time of death, now that’s a different matter. As you’ll remember from that case last summer, the one where that oaf fell off a ladder – to general rejoicing, as I recall – spinal injuries can be tricky.’

  ‘Ah yes, I remember,’ said Lineham. ‘You told us that unless the cord is completely severed the victim can live on indefinitely, although completely paralysed.’

  ‘You only have to visit Stoke Mandeville to see that,’ said Mallard. ‘All those poor devils who’ve been knocked off their motorbikes or dived into shallow swimming pools.’

  ‘You also said that even the slightest unskilled movement of the head by some well-meaning bystander could be enough to finish the person off,’ said Thanet.

  ‘Which is why paramedics take such extreme care in dealing with such cases,’ finished Lineham.

  ‘Bravo! Total recall!’ said Mallard. ‘Well, you see what I’m getting at here, then. Did anyone move her head?’

  Thanet and Lineham exchanged glances.

  ‘Her husband was kneeling beside the body when the ambulancemen arrived,’ said Lineham.

  ‘Well, you’d better check with him, then.’

  ‘We shall, of course,’ said Thanet. ‘But even though you can’t be precise, could you just give us some idea as to time of death?’

  Malla
rd looked at Thanet over the top of his gold-rimmed half-moons and raised his eyebrows. ‘You know I always hate committing myself at this stage, Luke.’

  Thanet persisted. ‘Just a rough estimate?’

  Mallard shrugged. ‘Oh well, if I must. Some time within the last two and a half hours, I’d say.’

  Thanet glanced at his watch. Nine-twenty p.m. Between 7 and 8.26, when the ambulance arrived, then. ‘Thanks, Doc, that narrows it down a bit.’ Though it didn’t help with the question of whether she died immediately, or later because her head had been moved. ‘Where’s her husband?’ he asked Lineham.

  The sergeant nodded at a closed door to the right of the hall. ‘In there.’

  ‘You said he’s in a bad way. Has his doctor been sent for?’

  ‘Yes. I rang straight away when I saw the way things were going. But he was out on a call. His wife said she’d give him the message as soon as he got in.’

  Thanet glanced at Mallard. ‘Would you mind hanging on while we interview him? In case you’re needed?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘Good. I’ll just have a word with the SOCOs and then we’ll go in. I assume they got all the pictures they wanted before you examined her?’

  Mallard nodded.

  ‘In that case, the ambulance can take her away. We don’t want her husband to have to see her again like this, if we can help it.’

  It was a sad fact, Thanet knew, that in cases of domestic murder the person most likely to have committed the crime was the spouse. He also knew, from long experience, that preconceived ideas could get in the way. He had no intention of condemning Manifest before he even set eyes on him.

  But he was still eager to meet him.

  TWO

  The sitting/dining room stretched from the front of the house to the back but even so was not very large – some ten feet wide by eighteen feet long, Thanet guessed. He noticed that like the hall it was crammed full of furniture – good-quality stuff, too, though the scale was all wrong for a house like this. At the far end a long oval mahogany dining table with eight matching chairs looked ridiculously pretentious in this setting and most of the space in the rest of the room was taken up by two vast sofas and a couple of equally plump armchairs, all of them upholstered in expensive-looking fabrics. There was a lavish display of entertainment equipment: a huge television set and video housed in an antique-style cabinet, and a CD player with enormous loudspeakers and hundreds of CDs stored in shoulder-high vertical racks nearby. All around the walls, tables, chairs and even two sizeable desks stood cheek by jowl, with books, lamps and ornaments covering every available surface. Thanet was beginning to get the picture. Either the Manifests had come down in the world, or they were living in temporary accommodation between moves.